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Aged nineteen, the time in your life when all the very best mistakes are made, some friends and I decided it would be wise to spend what little remained of our collective student loans to celebrate surviving our first year of university by jetting off on an exotic and exciting holiday. We pictured sun, sea and sand, sipping expensive cocktails on flashy yachts, and being served our drinks by handsome men wearing nothing but uncomfortably tight speedos. We very quickly realised however that our budget wouldn’t actually stretch to anything that could be even vaguely described as ‘exotic’, so instead booked a week in the somewhat less exclusive Ayia Napa in Cyprus.

For the unaware, Ayia Napa is (or at least was at the time) considered to be something of a 18-30 ‘wild time’ paradise. And yes, paradise is being used ironically. It’s a party-party-party type location by reputation, where the vast majority of vacationers will be sleeping through the day and setting both the world and their loins on fire by night. There was said to be no place on earth where casual sexual encounters could be found, indulged in and dismissed so easily, readily and without opinion or judgement.

For clarity, neither myself nor my friends were particularly party-girl type people. We enjoyed a drink (or seventeen), and as anyone who has read any of my other posts will know, weren’t exactly short of adventure and ‘fun times’, but we were far from the ‘party all night long’ revellers. Which was precisely why, in part, we ended up deciding to take the plunge and go for it. We’d all been through a year which had opened our eyes to much, and we’d all spent time enjoying the new found freedoms that university life can offer.

In short; we wondered ‘fuck it. Let’s try it. What’s the worst that can happen?’

The first night was largely uneventful. We headed out to explore the area and discover a few bars we’d likely settle in for the remainder of the week. I discovered just how deliciously casual the attitude to casual sex was when upwards of seven guys opening lines included no more words than basic derivations variations of little more than ‘Fancy a fuck?’ It being night one however, I politely declined explaining I was trying to pace myself. We lost one of the group at around 3am, clearly having found an offer too good to refuse.

I ended up blowing a guy on the beach at some stage before the night was through, as much due to willpower erosion as to get a taste for the locals. The details are sketchy at best, and I’d be lying if I claimed to recall anything as to how the situation came about. The overriding memory of the encounter is that we were just one pair of some five or more couples within view performing similar willing acts. I can only be certain of my success having woken up the following morning very clearly needing a shower.

The morning also brought with it the unexpected surprise of discovering a guy I didn’t recognise in the room. I was relieved to find that he was my friend’s problem – the one we lost at 3am – as he was busy extricating himself from her bed.

The following night started well/appallingly with increasingly unbearable karaoke, which went on for some time. Drunk off our faces, we decided to discover a new bar – having been all but chased out of the karaoke – and end up in a seedy off-the beaten path establishment that lured us in with free shots. Despite the seediness and sticky floors, it seemed a relatively enjoyable place to be, and we preferred the business of the slightly less ostentatiously party party vibe of the main strip. Which is to say we could very nearly have a conversation over the thump of base, and caterwauling of karaoke. The fact that more free shots came our way helped enormously too, which were downed without a second wondered.

I have no idea how long we were in the establishment – it may have been minutes, it may have been hours – when without warning the music stopped and a guy came over the microphone announcing that it was time the start the competitions.

Being drunk we cheered excitedly, despite not knowing what these competitions may involve. But Microphone man announced that there’ll be free drinks for the winners and bonus prizes for effort and success, so along with the crowd we ooh, whoop and cheer when encouraged, all very excited at the prospect of what may ensue.

The first competition was revealed as a wet t-shirt competition and we immediately lost interest, deciding instead to concentrate on the company of drinking. We were encouraged to join in by a member of the staff whose role can only be described as ‘women wrangler’, but politely decline, not wishing to spend the remainder of the night damp.

The second competition was pole dancing. This immediately caused a surge of excitement for one of our number who had ‘all the time wanted to give it a try – because it’s such good exercise.’ The explanation wasn’t necessary. She flung herself around the pole with abandon and a core strength that I envied, and came a very respectable third winning us a great many more shots.

Then came the third competition. I can’t say with any accuracy how much I’d had to drink by this point, other than by quantifying it as ‘far *far* too much’. The competition is announced and I can distinctly remember – though with no idea why – literally sticking my hand in the air and waving furiously like an willing pupil determined to be picked to offer an answer to a blackboard conundrum.

But what had I volunteered for, you may ask?

A race, of course.

A blowjob race.

I mean, competitive blowjobs? How could I refuse!

There were a surprising number of apparently willing volunteers, but six of us were selected – criteria for qualification wasn’t discussed – and I was pleased to be invited up to the stage alongside another friend from our group – mostly so I could now indisputably prove my superiority without having to resort to hypotheticals. Next we were invited to select *our* volunteers, which was essentially a free-for-all as every guy pushed his way forward in an overeager to the point of near desperation to be chosen – some even delightfully gonna far as to get their cocks out for a preview.

I don’t recall exactly how I made my choice, but I do remember I choosing very quickly indeed.

Volunteers were picked for individuals whose role it would be to stand in front of us on the stage holding aloft suspiciously stained sheets to mask our actions from the crowd – they were however informed they’d be dropping them occasionally to make sure there was no cheating and, naturally, to give the crowd an eyeful of the action. It was clear the competition would be something of a spectator sport.

We manoeuvred into position and readied ourselves, which effectively meant the guys stood on gaffer tape marks hurriedly stuck to the stage, and the female volunteers took up either kneeling or squatting positions in front. I opted for knees, principally as my state of inebriation would have had a notable adverse affect on my balance. Before the competition kicked off the guy on the mic asked for more male volunteers. It transpired that if we finished and wanted to carry on there was an all time ‘leader board’. By working our way through multiple guys we were promised eternal glory, could be immortalised forever on the leader board and, ultimately, win a great many alcohol related bonus prizes.

Microphone guy blew a whistle which was signal to commence our own blowing. He made a joke to this effect which was both shit in structure and incredibly poorly delivered. I remember thinking at the time how shit it was, which actually delayed me from starting.

Forcing comedy criticism from my mind, I remembered why I was kneeling on a stage in front of a cheering crowd, and I grab the stranger’s cock, put it in my mouth and start do what needs to be done.

It’s at this point – my lips wrapped around his cock, my tongue proving its worth as the most active muscle in the body – that the stranger decided introduced himself. I was too busy to introduce myself in return. He also asked if him talking and encouraging would help or hinder my progress. I disengaged for long enough to tell him – somewhat grumpily having wasted precious seconds – to do whatever he needed to get him across the line.

Unfortunately by whatever god-forsaken hour of the morning this competition took place the relentless shots had taken their toll. I was unspeakably drunk and painfully aware that I wasn’t doing my best work. I’d started too firm too fast, try to rush to a finish. A rookie mistake, and one that still haunts me to this very day.

I was vaguely aware of the sheet intermittently dropping to offer the crowd a view of proceeding, but my focus was elsewhere. While I’d like to say I was concentrating fully on the task in hand, I was also glancing around to see how I was faring compared to my competitors. I wanted to win, but was self aware enough to know I’d likely already ruined my chances. What was crucial now was not losing to my friend, who was two participants further along the raised stage.

As much as I’d like to offer a blow by blow (pun intended) user account, it’d be fruitless. The only facts I can be sure of are these: At one point the guy suggested I play with his balls. I snapped back to tell him I know what I’m doing. Then remembered to play with his balls. I also recall a stage when he started thrusting, which could have proven helpful if the damn fool had even the slightest sense of rhythm to match it with my own motions.

Suffice to say, we didn’t win. Somewhere further down the line I was aware of someone standing and shouting ‘done’ to great acclaim and cheering from the crowd. Mic guy suggested she could go for the record, but she declined. One victory was clearly enough. How I envy such restraint.

The remainder of the competitors were encouraged to keep going as there were still prizes to be won. Not that I’m a fan of consolation prizes – ‘runners up’ are just losers in all but name – But I had no intention of giving up. Failure is not a word I make myself familiar with..

Second place finished soon after, but she eagerly volunteered to take another to go for the record. Cue an even bigger cheer from the crowd as a second willing guy stepped forward, gurning like a man who’s Christmases all came at once. Pun intended.

By now though I’d finally found my rhythm, and the guy had relaxed and actually seemed to be enjoying it. Literal performance anxiety, I can only assume. But I’d found a specific tongue movement he responded well to – rapid horizontal movement across the underside of the head – and was using it excessively to bring proceedings to an end.

When I spied the tell-tale signs of his body begin to tense and balls notably twitch, I continued to lash his cock with my tongue until he erupted in my mouth, putting his hands on my shoulders as if to steady himself. However I threw them off so I could stand up, declare myself done, and spit the cum into a glass – Competition rules to verify nobody was cheating and faking completion.

Stood up I could see my poor friend was still going for it, seemingly making no progress at all. Her guy looked like he was trying to hard, wearing the expression more akin to a guy struggling with a tricky bowel movement than enjoying a sensual sexual experience.

I was hugely sympathetic, of course. But mostly I was wondering if I could get through two guys before she finished her first.

I told microphone man I intend to take a stab at going for the record, unceremoniously shifting my attention away from the guy in front of me still basking in the post-orgasm glow.

The crowd cheered as another guy was sent over. And I’d been lucky. This one was hot.

The details of the second round are, perhaps mercifully, lost to drink and time. I know it was hugely enjoyable for both parties, and I can say with some certainty that I was swift and feasible as we made incredibly rapid progress…

I know I enjoyed it because, as he finished, I had to remind myself not to swallow.

I finished him before my friend officially gave up on her first, declaring the competition unfair as she’d clearly been given a gay man. She apologised soon after, and returned almost tearfully to our table. I was magnanimous in victory and didn’t gloat until we’d sobered up the next day. I’m such a generous soul.

For what it’s worth I also decided that two was enough for me, though mostly because I was far more interested in finding out more about the handsome stranger guy who’d recently cum in my mouth.

My catchphrase for the remainder of the holiday was ‘putting the suck in success’.

Which are bold words for a shameful bronze position.

​

(For those concerned about deja vu, yes I have posted this before. But the previous occasion was over a year ago, and I’ve elaborated and expanded on elements I didn’t cover last time in order to revisit the experience without being too repetitive.)

NSFW: yes

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